TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

Some minor changes are noted at the [end of the book].

A BOOK
ABOUT
WORDS.

BY

G. F. GRAHAM,

AUTHOR OF ‘ENGLISH, OR THE ART OF COMPOSITION,’
‘ENGLISH SYNONYMES,’ ‘ENGLISH STYLE,’
‘ENGLISH GRAMMAR PRACTICE,’
ETC.

LONDON:

LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.

1869.

PREFACE.

The increased attention lately paid to our Language as a subject of Education, has induced the Author to state in the following pages his views on English (and other) Words. These views are the result of a long professional career in tuition, together with the study which such a calling naturally involves.

Notwithstanding the rapid strides made of late years in the science of Words, much still remains unknown to the general reader; but if the following remarks be accepted as a small contribution to a more extended knowledge of this interesting subject, the Author will be amply compensated for any trouble it may have cost him to collect them.

Kensington:
May, 1869.

[CONTENTS.]

[INTRODUCTION.]

What is meant by a Language? It is a collection of all the words, phrases, grammatical forms, idioms, &c., which are used by one people. It is the outward expression of the tendencies, turn of mind, and habits of thought of some one nation, and the best criterion of their intellect and feelings. If this explanation be admitted, it will naturally follow that the connection between a people and their language is so close, that the one may be judged of by the other; and that the language is a lasting monument of the nature and character of the people.

Every language, then, has its genius; forms of words, idioms, and turns of expression peculiar to itself; by which, independently of other differences, one nation may be distinguished from another. This condition may be produced by various causes; such as soil, climate, conquest, immigration, &c. Out of the old Roman, or Latin, there arose several modern languages of Europe; all known by the generic name—Romance; viz. Italian, French, Provençal, Spanish, and Portuguese. These may be called daughters of ancient Latin; and the natives of all these countries down to the seventh century, both spoke and wrote that language. But when the Scandinavian and Germanic tribes invaded the West of Europe, the Latin was broken up, and was succeeded by Italian, French, Spanish, &c. The Latin now became gradually more and more corrupt, and was, at length, in each of these countries, wholly remodelled.

History has been called ‘the study of the law of change;’ i.e. the process by which human affairs are transferred from one condition to another. The history of a language has naturally a close analogy with political history; the chief difference being that the materials of the latter are facts, events, and institutions; whilst the former treats of words, forms, and constructions. Now, in the same way as a nation never stands still, but is continually undergoing a silent—perhaps imperceptible—transformation, so it is with its language. This is proved both by experience and reason. We need hardly say that the English of the present time differ widely from the English of the fourteenth century; and we may be quite sure that the language of this country, two or three centuries hence, will be very different from what it is at present. It would be impossible for a nation either to improve or decay, and for its language at the same time to remain stationary. The one being a reflex of the other, they must stand or fall together.

What, then, is this law of change? On what principles is it based? How are we to study or follow out its operations? These questions are exceedingly difficult, if not impossible, to answer definitively. But there are circumstances connected with the formation of certain languages which may throw some light on them. It may be received as a principle that, when one nation is overrun or conquered by another, the effect on the language of the conquered depends mainly on the condition of that which is brought in by the conquerors. If the victors be as superior to the vanquished in civilisation and improvement as they have proved themselves in physical power, they will impose their language on the conquered people. If, on the other hand, that of the vanquished be the more cultivated, the reverse will take place; the dialect of the conquerors will be absorbed into that of the conquered.

When the Visigoths settled in Spain in the fifth century, their dialect made but little impression on the language afterwards known as Spanish. The Latin element in the Peninsula, though at that time falling into decay, was far more refined and polished than the barbarous dialect then introduced; and it consequently remained, with some slight modifications, the language of the country. The same happened when the Northmen settled in France in the tenth century. It is astonishing how rapidly the language of Rollo and his followers was absorbed into French! This may have been assisted by the intermarriage of the conquerors with the women of the country; but it was produced chiefly by the different conditions of the two languages.

On the other hand, when the Normans, under William the Conqueror, invaded England in the eleventh century, a different effect was produced. The Norman French after a time, though not immediately, enriched the English language with many words, but it did not, in the slightest degree, either then or afterwards, affect its grammatical forms or idioms. The cause of this was that the Saxon language was, at that epoch, already fixed, and fit for literary purposes. It was, indeed, much further advanced as a literary language than the invading Norman-French. It therefore resisted this external pressure; and though it afterwards admitted numerous French terms, the English language remains to this day Saxon, and not French, in its tone, character, and grammar.

The climate of a country, or the temperament of a people, may also strongly influence the character of the language. Given an indolent and luxurious race, and we must expect that softness and effeminacy will appear in their spoken and written expression. No acute observer can fail to perceive a close connection between the national character of the Italians and the softness and beauty of their harmonious tongue. Again: the simplicity and somewhat homely and rough vigour of the Teutonic race, are clearly shadowed forth in the sounds and forms of the German language.

The climate, too, in both cases, may have contributed towards these results. A hot, enervating atmosphere produces languor of mind as well as body; whilst a bracing cold air, though it may assist in producing a phlegmatic temperament, at the same time infuses vigour, energy, and power into those who are subjected to its influence.

There are also, no doubt, many hidden causes of gradual changes in language. These are difficult to ascertain; and some of them escape the sagacity of even the most acute observers. Political struggles, foreign wars, domestic habits, literary studies, &c., may all contribute to alter the character of a people, and so far to affect their language.

But whatever may be these mysterious laws of change, they must be left to Nature herself, and no one must attempt to interfere with them. There are no more miserable failures recorded in history than the attempt by rulers to interfere with the laws of Nature. We are told (though not on very good authority) that William the Conqueror ordered the Saxons to speak Norman-French. He might as well have ordered his new subjects to walk on their heads—the one was quite as easy as the other. But no writer tells us with what success this decree was executed. Ordericus Vitalis, indeed, states that William endeavoured to learn Saxon, though he does not say how far he succeeded. Now it is not very likely that he should have studied a language which he was, at the same time, bent on exterminating. Indeed, there is an air of extreme improbability about the whole story.

In more recent times, it is well known that Joseph II., of Germany, issued an edict that all his subjects, Slavonic, Magyar, or German, should adopt one uniform language—German. But it was soon found impossible to execute this decree, for the people would as soon have parted with their lives as with their language; the whole empire was, therefore, immediately thrown into confusion. Many of the provinces broke out into open rebellion, and it at length became necessary to abandon the project.

It is then clear that no one has the power, of his own will or caprice, to add a single word to a language, or to cast one out of it. These changes must be left to Nature, and all we can do is to watch her operations, to observe and record facts. But we may speculate on the origin of words, and may sometimes discover the causes of their birth. We may also inquire into the circumstances of their career, and the laws which regulate their forms, changes, meanings, &c. These inquiries are particularly comprehensive and interesting, because they naturally lead us to some knowledge of what words represent, and also because they are closely connected with the study of the human mind both as regards intellect and passion.

A BOOK

ABOUT

WORDS.

[CHAPTER I.]
ORIGIN OF WORDS—FAMILIES OF WORDS.

Most Philologists have hitherto held the opinion that, in general, no satisfactory account can be given of the origin of language. They can trace a word from one language to another, and can account for its various forms and changes by laws now generally understood; but they confess their inability to explain what determined the original form of its root. They take that original form for granted, as a sort of intuitive truth which must be admitted as a necessity. They can explain the circumstances of its career; but of its first cause or nature they profess to understand little or nothing.

But though this is the general opinion, all linguists admit that in every language certain words, more especially those that convey ideas of sound, are formed on the principle of onomatopœia; i.e. an attempt to make the pronunciation conform to the sound. Such English words as ‘hiss,’ ‘roar,’ ‘bang,’ ‘buzz,’ ‘crash,’ &c., are of this class. One can hardly pronounce these words without, in some sense, performing the acts which they represent.

One school of linguists have lately expressed a belief that all words were formed on this principle. A very curious illustration of this view is given in Mr. Wedgwood’s ‘Origin of Language.’ Explaining the interjection Hem, he says, it was originally an attempt to stop some one. We are supposed to be walking behind some person; we wish to stop him, and we exclaim, ‘Hem!’ This is given as the primary meaning of the word. ‘The sound is here an echo to the sense.’ But hem is used in other ways; either as a noun, or a verb; always, however, retaining its original idea of restricting, or keeping back. The hem of a garment is what prevents the thread from ravelling. Again, soldiers are sometimes hemmed in by the enemy; that is, prevented from using their free will to go where they choose. This illustration is intended to prove that the principle of onomatopœia applies not only to words that represent sound, but, by analogy, to other meanings derived from that principle. There is sound implied in the interjection hem; though in the noun and the verb, both derived from that interjection, no idea of sound is conveyed.

This connection between sound and sense is certainly a natural principle; and however scornfully it may have been ridiculed by some philosophers, it has undoubtedly produced many very fine passages in the poetry of both ancient and modern times.

1. The chorus of frogs in Aristophanes, where their croaking is represented by words invented for the occasion:

Βρεκεκεξ, κοαξ, κοαξ.

This is, to say the least of it, very ingenious, and, in its way, beautiful, because true.

2. The same principle seems to apply in the πολυφλοίσβοιο θαλάσσης (poluphloisboio thalassēs) of Homer, where the first word was probably intended to represent the roaring of the wave mounting on the sea-shore; and the second, the hissing sound which accompanies a receding billow.

3. Another example of onomatopœia, in Virgil’s Æneid, viii. 452, has been often quoted:

‘Quadrupedante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum;’

where the succession of dactyls is admirably adapted to represent the sound of the hoofs of a galloping horse.

4. Several examples of the same figure may be found in Milton. Describing the thronging of the fallen angels in Pandemonium:

Thick swarmed, both on the ground and in the air,

Brushed with the hiss of rustling wings.

5. Also, speaking of the gates of hell:

... open fly

Th’ infernal doors; and on their hinges grates

Harsh thunder ...

Here the recurrence of the letter r is well calculated to convey the idea of a harsh, creaking, grating sound.

6. A similar effect is produced in Tasso’s ‘Gerusalemme Liberata.’

Il rauco son della Tartarea tromba.

This connection between sound and sense may very probably exist in many words where we now fail to perceive it; but in the present state of our knowledge of the subject, we can hardly pronounce positively in favour of this view as applied to the whole body of a language. The question remains, for the present, in abeyance.

Families of Words (Saxon).

But setting aside the origin of words, it is not difficult to show the affinity which many springing from the same root have for each other. There are in English, as in other languages, hundreds of words which may be said to have a family connection, and which are traceable to one common origin, or root. This connection may be found in the Saxon as well as the Romance part of our language. Th (soft) may be considered as the type of the idea of demonstration. All the English pronouns and adverbs beginning with these letters have that general meaning, which may be seen in ‘that,’ ‘the,’ ‘there,’ ‘thence,’ ‘this,’ ‘thither,’ ‘those,’ ‘thus,’ and others. Again, the initial wh may be considered as the type of an interrogative, or relative meaning. This also may be seen in many English pronouns and adverbs; as in ‘what,’ ‘when,’ ‘whence,’ ‘where,’ ‘whither,’ ‘who,’ ‘whom,’ ‘whose,’ &c. The principle of inversion has affected the whole of this class of words. They are all of Saxon origin, and were spelled in that language hw, and not wh; as in ‘hwæt’ (what), ‘hwaer’ (where), ‘hwanne’ (when), &c.

Tw.

The Saxon initial tw corresponds with the Romance du. There are many English words having this initial, which convey the idea of ‘two.’ 1. The numeral itself, ‘two’ 2. ‘Twain,’ a now obsolete form of ‘two.’ 3. ‘Twin,’ one of two children born at a birth. 4. ‘Between,’ which is only another form of ‘by twain.’ 5. ‘Twilight,’ i.e. between two lights—daylight and lamplight. 6. ‘Twice’ is equivalent to ‘two’ times. 7. To ‘twist’ is to bend two or more threads together. 8. To ‘twine’ is to interlace, so as to form one body out of two. And 9. A ‘twig’ is so called from its being easily twisted.

It is said that the word ‘nose’ originally signified a promontory—something prominent—and that it is so called from being the prominent feature of the face. This view is supported by its analogy with naze, a headland, and the Scotch ness (as in Inverness), a part of the coast which juts forward. It may be observed that the word meaning ‘nose’ has in most European languages the form N-S-. This may be seen in the Greek νῆσος, an island or promontory; the Latin nasus, the Italian naso, the German Nase, the French nez, and the English nose. Whether this be or be not an onomatopœia one thing is certain, viz. that in English the initial sn (ns inverted) in so many cases expresses nasal action, that it may be taken as a general type of that meaning. This may be found in a multitude of words having that initial, all expressing various actions of the nose. It may be seen in ‘snarl,’ ‘sneer,’ ‘sneeze,’ ‘sniff,’ ‘snore,’ ‘snort,’ ‘snooze,’ ‘snout,’ ‘snub,’ ‘snuff,’ &c.

Ber-an—to bear.

This is the source of our English verb ‘to bear.’ It produces the following:—1. ‘Barrow,’ an implement used for carrying or bearing. 2. ‘Berth,’ a place in which one is borne. 3. ‘Bier,’ a coffin in which a corpse is borne to the grave. 4. ‘Birth,’ the bearing of a child. 5. ‘Berry,’ the fruit which a tree bears.

Bles-an—to blow.

From this verb we have, 1. ‘Blaze,’ a strong flame blown forth. 2. ‘Blast,’ a violent blowing, or gust of wind. 3. ‘Blain,’ a boil, or blowing up of the flesh. 4. ‘Blight,’ injury done to corn, &c., from being blasted. 5. ‘Blister,’ a blowing, or rising, up of the skin. 6. ‘Blossom’ (or ‘bloom’), the blowing forth of the flower. 7. ‘Blush,’ a blowing forth of the blood. 8. ‘Bluster,’ as the wind when blowing hard.

Brecc-an—to break.

1. The English verb ‘to break’ is directly from the above. 2. ‘Bridge,’ a building which breaks a passage across a river, &c. 3. ‘Breach,’ that part of a wall or fortification broken into by artillery. 4. To ‘broach’ a cask of ale is to break into it. 5. A ‘brook’ is a stream of water which breaks its way across the country.

Bug-an—to bend.

1. A ‘bay’ is a bending in of the line of coast. 2. In sailors’ language, a ‘bight’ is the hollow part of a bay, or a coil of rope bent round. 3. A ‘bow’ is so called from its being bent. 4. To make a ‘bow’ is to bend the body. 5. ‘Beam’ (compare the German ‘Baum’) is so named from its property of bending. 6. A ‘bough’ is the part of the tree that easily bends. 7. A ‘bower’ is made of branches bowed or bent down. 8. The adjective ‘buxom’ (compare the German ‘biegsam’) is properly bending or pliable. 9. ‘Elbow’ is the bow of the ell, or that part where the arm bends. ‘Big’ and ‘bag’ are probably from the same source; they both convey the idea of something bent round.

Ceap-ān—to exchange.

The essence of buying and selling lies in the exchange of goods for money, or money for goods. Hence come 1. the English word ‘chapman’ (sometimes contracted into chap), which properly means a buyer and seller. 2. To ‘chaffer’ is to bargain about a purchase. 3. ‘Cheap,’ bearing a low price, refers to a similar transaction. 4. We have also ‘Cheapside’ and ‘Eastcheap,’ originally markets, or places for buying and selling. 5. Chepstow, Chipping Norton, and other names of market-towns in England, are from the same root. 6. The wind is said to chop when it changes from one point of the compass to another.

Ceaw-an—to chew.

1. The older form of ‘chew’ was ‘chaw,’ which we still occasionally hear in ‘chaw-bacon.’ 2. The cud is the grass chewed by ruminating animals. 3. A quid of tobacco is a piece kept in the mouth to be chewed.

Dael-an—to divide.

1. To ‘deal’ is from the above verb. It is used in English in a variety of senses, all containing the idea of dividing into parts. 2. A certain sort of wood is called ‘deal’ from being easily divided, or cut into planks. 3. To ‘deal’ cards is to divide them into packets or parcels. 4. Tradesmen ‘deal’ in certain articles when they sell them in small, divided quantities. 5. We also say ‘a great deal,’ speaking of a large part divided from the mass. [‘Some-deal’ was formerly said, but it is now obsolete.] 6. A ‘dole’ is a small part or share dealt out. (Compare the German ‘theilen.’)

Dic-ian—to dig.

From this Saxon verb we have, 1. To ‘dig.’ 2. ‘Dike,’ a mound of earth ‘dug’ out. 3. ‘Ditch,’ a line ‘dug.’ 4. ‘Dagger,’ an instrument used for ‘digging;’ and 5. ‘Dock,’ a place ‘dug’ out on the side of a harbour or bank of a river, where ships are repaired.

Drag-an—to draw.

This Saxon verb gives the English ‘to draw.’ From this we have, 1. ‘Dray,’ a heavy cart drawn along. 2. A ‘drain,’ a tube to draw off water. 3. A ‘draft,’ an order to draw out money from a bank. 4. A ‘draught’ is a quantity of liquid drawn into the mouth. 5. To ‘drawl’ is to drag on the voice heavily. 6. ‘Drudge,’ and 7. ‘Dredge’ (for oysters, &c.); both which express a dragging or drawing. (Compare the German ‘tragen’ and the Latin ‘trahere.’)

Dropi-an—to drop.

From this root comes 1. The verb ‘to drop.’ 2. To ‘droop,’ i.e. to lean downwards. 3. To ‘drip,’ or fall continually. 4. To ‘dribble,’ or to fall in small ‘drops.’ 5. A ‘driblet,’ or a very small drop.

Eri-an—to till.

1. To ‘ear,’ in the sense of ‘to plough,’ is now obsolete in English, though we have an ‘ear,’ or spike, of corn—the result of tilling; and 3. ‘Earth,’ that which is tilled or cultivated.

Far-an—to journey.

1. From this verb (German ‘fahren’) comes our verb to ‘fare;’ literally, to go on, or make a journey. 2. The adverbs ‘fore,’ ‘forth,’ and ‘far’ convey a similar idea; viz. that of onward movement. 3. The ‘ford’ of a river is that point at which it can be ‘fared,’ or crossed; and 4. To ‘ferry’ is the act of faring, or passing across a river or lake. 5. ‘Frith’ and ‘firth’ are formed on the same principle; they are those parts of the sea where one can be ferried across. 6. The first syllable (fur) in the word ‘furlough’ belongs to this family. It is leave (lough) granted to a soldier to ‘fare,’ or journey, home for a time. All these forms are devices to explain a variety of modes of faring, or moving onwards.

Fed-an—to feed.

This gives us, 1. To ‘feed.’ 2. ‘Fat,’ the result of being well ‘fed.’ 3. ‘Fodder,’ provision for cattle; and, 4. ‘Food,’ that which ‘feeds,’ or supplies nourishment.

Fi-an—to hate.

From this verb we have in English—1. A ‘fiend,’ one who hates. 2. Hence also comes ‘foe,’ an enemy, or one hated. 3. To the same root may be traced ‘fie!’ an interjection expressing dislike or hatred; 4. and also ‘foh!’ or ‘faugh!’ an exclamation of disgust.

Fleaw-an—to flow.

Hence come, 1. ‘To flow.’ 2. ‘Fleet;’ a number of ships that ‘flow,’ or swim, on the water. 3. The adjective ‘fleet,’ qualifying what flows by. 4. To ‘float,’ or swim, on the water; and, 5. ‘Flood,’ a large flow of water.

Fuli-an—to make dirty.

From this root come, 1. ‘Foul’ (putrid, offensive). 2. To ‘defile;’ to make ‘foul.’ 3. The noun ‘filth,’ dirt. 4. The adjective ‘filthy;’ and 5. ‘Fulsome;’ full of filth, nauseous, disgusting.

G-an—to go.

1. ‘Gan’ is the Saxon verb whence the English ‘to go’ is derived. 2. This gives us ‘gait,’ i.e. a manner of ‘going;’ and, 3. ‘Gate,’ a door through which one ‘goes.’ To these may be added 4. ‘Gang,’ a number of people ‘going’ together; and, 5. the nautical term ‘gang-way,’ i.e. a passage ‘to go’ through. 6. The verb ‘to gad,’ i.e. to be continually ‘going’ from one place to another, also probably belongs to this family.

Glowi-an—to burn.

The verb ‘to low,’ in the sense of ‘to burn,’ does not now exist in the language; but the above verb gives us, 1. To ‘glow,’ i.e. to burn intensely; whence come the forms, 2. ‘Gleam;’ 3. ‘Glimmer;’ and, 4. ‘Glimpse;’ 5. ‘Gloom,’ or a state into which light ‘gleams;’ and, 6. the word ‘light,’ which is a participial form of the old verb to ‘low.’ In one English word the root ‘low’ is still retained, viz. ‘whitlow,’ a painful white burning on the finger or thumb.

Graf-an—to dig.

From this verb we have in English, 1. ‘Grave,’ a pit dug. 2. To ‘engrave,’ i.e. to scratch or dig in. 3. ‘Groove,’ a line dug in. 4. ‘Gravel,’ earth dug up. 5. To ‘grovel,’ literally, to dig up earth; and, 6. To ‘grub,’ or scratch into the earth.

Gyrd-an—to enclose.

The English words derived from ‘gyrdan,’ and having a cognate meaning are, 1. To ‘gird,’ to enclose by tying round. 2. ‘Girdle,’ a small band or cincture. 3. ‘Girth,’ the band which ‘girds’ the saddle on a horse. 4. ‘Garter,’ a band tied round the leg; and, 5. ‘Garden,’ a space enclosed for the cultivation of fruit, vegetables, &c.

Lang—long.

From the Anglo-Saxon and German ‘lang’ is derived, 1. our adjective ‘long;’ from which again comes, 2. the abstract noun ‘length.’ 3. The adjective, ‘lean;’ and 4. ‘lanky’ are also members of this family. 5. To ‘linger,’ i.e. to remain a long time in a place. 6. To ‘lunge;’ to make a long stroke with a rapier; and, 7. A ‘link,’ that which makes a chain ‘longer.’

Lecj-an—to lay.

1. Both the English verbs ‘lay’ and ‘lie’ (which is to lay oneself down) come from this verb, 2. ‘Ledge,’ a place on which to lay anything; 3. ‘Ledger,’ a book which lies on a merchant’s desk; and, 4. ‘Law,’ a rule laid down.

Læd-an—to lead.

1. Besides the verb ‘to lead,’ we have from this source: 2. ‘Ladder,’ an instrument which leads to a higher place. 3. Load-star, and loadstone, i.e. a leading star or stone.

(H)lifi-an—to lift.

This is the source of, 1. our verb to ‘lift.’ Also, 2. ‘Loft,’ i.e. a room ‘lifted’ high. 3. The adverb ‘aloft’—‘lifted up.’ 4. ‘Aloof;’ and 5. The adjective ‘lofty.’

Maw-an—to cut down.

From the Saxon root ‘maw’ comes immediately 1. Our verb to ‘mow,’—as well as a ‘mow’ (a barley-mow or a hay-mow); i.e. a quantity of barley or hay mown and heaped together. From this is derived, 2. ‘Mead,’ i.e. a mowed field; and, 3. Meadow, a large mead. 4. Farmers still use the word aftermath, which, with them, is a second mowing. 5, The now obsolete ‘mo’ or ‘moe,’ as used in the sense of a collected quantity or heap by Chaucer and other writers down to Lord Surrey, is said to give us the words ‘more’ and ‘most’ as the comparative and superlative forms of ‘mo;’ but this is doubted by many etymologists.

Pocca—a bag.

There are several English derivatives from this root. 1. We find it in the word ‘smallpox’ (or pocks), where it means little bags or holes left in the skin by the action of this disease. 2. We once had the word ‘poke’ in the sense of ‘a bag,’ as in the phrase ‘to buy a pig in a poke.’ 3. ‘Pocket’ is a diminutive of poke, i.e. a little bag. 4. To ‘poach;’ and 5. ‘Pouch’ are variations of the same root; for to ‘poach’ is to steal game and conceal it in a ‘pouch.’ 5. A ‘peck,’ and 6. a ‘pack’ are both generic terms of a similar meaning; and, 7. ‘Puckered’ cheeks are bagged or puffed out with the cold.

Scuf-ian—to push.

This root is a fertile source of English words; we find it, 1. in our now not very elegant word ‘shove,’ that is, to push rudely or roughly. 2. A ‘sheaf’ of corn takes its name from the stalks of which it is composed being ‘shoved,’ or pushed up together; and, 3. the ‘shaft’ of a javelin is the wooden part which is ‘shoved’ into the iron. 4. A ‘shovel’ is a small instrument used to ‘shove,’ or push into, coals, etc.; and, 5. our ‘shoes’ are so called because we ‘shove’ our feet into them. 6. ‘Scuffle’ and ‘shuffle’ are only modified forms of the verb ‘to shove,’ and express a repetition of that act. According to some etymologists the word ‘sheep’ belongs to this family, as being an animal ‘shoved’ or pushed along in flocks from place to place. Hence, perhaps, the name; but this must be considered a doubtful derivation.

Scyr-an—to cut.

From this Saxon verb come, 1. To ‘shear’ and the noun ‘shears.’ 2. A ‘share’ of anything means, properly, a part ‘cut’ off, or divided from the whole substance; and a ‘ploughshare’ is that part of the implement which ‘cuts’ through the earth. 3. Common experience tells us that the adjective ‘sharp’ qualifies what easily cuts or divides. 4. A ‘shire’ signifies a district cut off or divided from the rest of the country; and ‘sheriff’ is a contraction of ‘shire-reeve,’ i.e. the officer of the ‘shire.’ 5. ‘Shirt’ and, 6. ‘Short’ both belong to the same class; the first is a garment ‘cut’ off, and the second is a participle from the verb ‘to shore’ or divide, the noun ‘shore’ meaning the line which ‘divides’ the sea from the land. From the same root comes, 7. ‘Sheer.’ Sheer impudence and sheer nonsense mean impudence and nonsense unqualified, i.e. ‘divided’ or cut off from any modesty and sense. Besides the above, we have the same general idea in the expression, 8. ‘Shreds’ and patches, little snippings or ‘cuttings.’ 9. Shakspere’s ‘shard-borne’ beetle means the beetle borne on his ‘shards,’ or scaly wings divided in the middle. 10. To these we may add ‘potsherd,’ a piece broken off or divided from a pot. The words ‘scar,’ ‘score,’ ‘scream,’ ‘screech,’ ‘shrill,’ ‘shriek,’ &c., belong to the same class, the leading idea in them all being that of cutting or dividing; and they are all based upon the type ‘scr’ or ‘shr.’

Sitt-an—to sit.

1. This is the origin of our word to ‘sit;’ whence comes, 2. To ‘set.’ The latter is the transitive from the intransitive, formed by a change of the vowel. 3. ‘Settle’ is a frequentative of ‘sit,’ and expresses a permanent sitting. 4. A ‘seat’ is from the same root; it is that on which any one ‘sits;’ and, 5. A ‘saddle’ is a seat on horseback.

Sleaw—slow.

1. From the Anglo-Saxon ‘Sleaw’ comes our adjective ‘slow.’ Hence we have, 2. ‘Sloth,’ or the quality of being slow; 3. ‘Sloven’ (m.) and ‘slut’ (f.), which both convey the idea of being slow and negligent; 4. ‘Slug,’ a slow animal, from which comes the verb ‘to slug,’ to indulge in sloth; and, 7. ‘Sluggard,’ a lazy indolent man.

Stig-an—to mount.

This root gives us, 1. ‘Stair,’ a step to mount by; 2. ‘Stile’ (A.-S. Stigel), a gate to be mounted or got over; 3. ‘Stirrup’ (or stig-rope), a rope by which to mount; and, 4. ‘Stye,’ i.e. a rising pustule on the eyelid.

Straeg-an—to spread.

From the A.-S. root ‘straeg’ we have the English words ‘straw’ and ‘strew.’ 1. ‘Straw’ is the dry stalks of certain plants ‘strewn’ or scattered about. 2. To ‘stray’ means to go dispersedly or separately. 3. ‘Straggle’ is a frequentative of the last word. 4. The word ‘street’ is by some supposed to be connected with this root. A ‘street’ is a way ‘strewn’ or paved with stones.

Taepp-an—to draw drink.

Hence we have in English, 1. ‘To tap,’ and, 2. A ‘tap,’ the instrument by which wine or beer is drawn from the cask; 3. ‘Tapster,’ one who draws liquor. 4. To ‘tope’ is to ‘tip’ off beer or spirits. 5. A ‘toper’ is one who topes, and to ‘tipple’ is to be continually toping. 6. One who ‘tipples’ is likely to be often ‘tipsy.’

Tell-an—to count.

The ordinary meaning of our English verb ‘to tell’ is to recount the particulars of some event or occurrence. Hence comes a ‘tale,’ which signifies the recounting of such particulars. The passage in Milton’s ‘L’Allegro’—

Every shepherd tells his tale

Under the hawthorn in the dale—

has been explained as ‘every shepherd counts over his sheep.’ Shakspere has, ‘as thick as tale came post with post,’ that is, as rapidly as could be counted. From the same root comes ‘till,’ a box into which money is counted. Again, when we speak of ‘tolling’ a bell, a similar meaning is implied, viz. the numbering or counting out the strokes; and a ‘toll’ is money told or counted into the hands of the receiver. Again, accounts are said to ‘tally’ when, after being reckoned or counted up, they amount to the same sum.

Teog-an—to pull.

From this verb come, 1. To ‘tow,’ to pull a boat or vessel along; 2. To ‘tug,’ to pull with force. 3. The noun ‘tow’ means flax which must be ‘tugged,’ or pulled, asunder. 4. The adjective ‘tough,’ which qualifies what must be pulled hard. 5. ‘Team,’ a number of horses pulling together; and, 6. ‘Tight,’ what is ‘towed’ or pulled together with force. 7. The sailor’s phrase ‘to haul taut,’ is ‘to pull tight.’

Wan-ian—to decrease.

1. We still say, ‘the moon waxes and “wanes,”’ i.e. apparently increases and decreases in size. 2. ‘Wan,’ an adjective which expresses thinness or decrease of health. 3. ‘Want’ signifies a condition in which our means are decreased; and, 4. To ‘wean’ is to gradually accustom any one to a ‘want.’

Weg-an—to move.

1. From this come the English ‘way,’ which means the space through which one can ‘move.’ 2. To ‘wag’ (the tongue or the head), i.e. to ‘move’ it rapidly. 3. A waggon (sometimes contracted into ‘wain’) is a vehicle which ‘moves’ goods, &c., from one place to another. 4. To ‘sway’ is the intensive of wag—it is to move strongly; and, 5. ‘Swagger’ is the frequentative of ‘sway.’

Weri-an—to wear.

1. This is the origin of our word ‘to wear,’ in its ordinary sense. 2. From this we have ‘weary,’ the state of being ‘worn’ with fatigue. 3. From the same root come ‘worse’ and ‘worst,’ which are really the comparative and superlative degrees of ‘wear,’ i.e. ‘more worn’ and ‘most worn.’ 4. To ‘worry,’ i.e. to ‘wear out’ by importunity.

Wit-an—to know.

From the root ‘wit’ in this Saxon verb came, in English, 1. The old forms ‘wist’ and ‘wot,’ together with, 2. The modern word ‘wit,’ and the expression, ‘to wit’—all these imply knowledge. 3. We have ‘wise’ (which at first signified knowing much), with its derivative, ‘wisdom.’ 5. ‘Wizard’ and ‘witch’ are both from the same source, and were terms originally applied to those who were supposed to come by their ‘knowledge’ by a compact with the powers of darkness. 6. The word ‘wittingly,’ i.e. of one’s own knowledge; and, 7. A ‘witness,’ or one who tells us what he ‘knows’ about some fact.

Wrid-an—to twist.

This is the source of many English words: 1. To ‘writhe,’ or twist the body in pain. 2. ‘Wrath.’ When in ‘wrath,’ one is ‘writhed’ or tortured by angry passion. 3. ‘Wry’ and ‘awry,’ i.e. ‘twisted’ on one side. 4. To ‘wring’ the hands is to ‘twist’ them convulsively. 5. ‘Wrong’ properly means ‘wrung,’ or twisted out of the right path. 6. ‘Wrangle’ denotes a continual distortion or perversity; and, 7. To ‘wriggle’ is the frequentative of ‘to wring;’ it means to twist about repeatedly. Beside these, we have, 8. The wrist, i.e. the joint which ‘twists’ or turns easily; and, 9. To ‘wrest’ and ‘wrestle.’ 10. To ‘wrench.’ These are all modes of twisting. 11. To ‘wreathe’ is to twist or twine together, and, 13. A ‘wrinkle’ denotes a distortion of a smooth surface.

[CHAPTER II.]
LATIN AND FRENCH WORDS.

Latin Roots.

English words which indicate mental actions, feelings, or general abstractions, come to us from a Latin or a French source. These, though not the most numerous, comprise a very considerable portion of the English language. It must be understood that French is, in the main, composed of Latin words; and we may conveniently divide this portion of the English language into three classes:—1. Words derived directly from Latin; 2. Words derived indirectly from Latin, through a French medium; and, 3. Middle-age Latin words, i.e. those formed from a corrupt Latin by the monks of the middle ages. These last appear in French in a modified form, and come into English still further altered in their spelling and pronunciation.

I. In most cases English words of the first class are compounds or derivatives. We have not adopted the roots themselves, but use them only in composition, with some particle or preposition. For example: the Latin root ‘clude’ is never found in English as an independent word, though we have ‘exclude,’ ‘include,’ ‘preclude,’ &c. It is also to be observed that a Latin verbal root, in many cases, produces two forms in English; one containing the root of the verb itself, and the other its participial form. Thus, the above example will give us ‘exclude,’ from the Latin verb ‘excludĕre,’ and also ‘exclusion,’ ‘exclusive,’ from its participle ‘exclusus.’ If we take any one of these roots, say ‘clud’ and ‘clus’ (shut), we may find it in modern English in a great variety of forms. From the participial root (clus) come ‘clause’ (a part of a sentence shut in); ‘cloister’ (a place shut in); ‘close’ (to shut to); ‘closet’ (a small place shut up); ‘recluse,’ one shut out from the world, &c., as well as the verbs exclude, include, preclude, with their derivatives exclusion, inclusion, preclusion; the adjectives ‘exclusive,’ ‘inclusive,’ ‘preclusive,’ and the adverbs ‘exclusively,’ ‘inclusively,’ &c. These words are not often found in the vocabulary of the uneducated classes; they belong rather to the language of books, or to the set forms of eloquence, than to that of daily intercourse. We should say, in common parlance, that a boy was shut out of the room by his companions; but we should hardly say that he was excluded. In a secondary sense, however, such a word would be more properly adopted. We should say correctly, ‘that such considerations were excluded from this view of the subject,’ where we could not very well use ‘shut out.’ Again, we could not properly say that any one was ‘included’ in a dungeon; meaning that he was ‘shut in.’ Words drawn from these Latin roots have a very wide application in English, but they are confined chiefly to a mental, and are seldom used in a physical, sense. Saxon forms the basis of our language, and is used in practical and domestic matters; while our spiritual conceptions are expressed by French or Latin words.

Another well-known Latin root is ‘cide’ (from cædĕre, to slay); which corresponds in meaning with the more familiar Saxon word ‘kill.’ We have, not ‘cide,’ but ‘fratricide,’ ‘matricide,’ ‘regicide,’ ‘suicide,’ ‘parricide,’ ‘homicide,’ and ‘infanticide.’ To these may be added, ‘concise,’ ‘precise,’ ‘decision,’ ‘incision,’ &c. All the latter are derived from the participle of the same Latin verb—‘cæsus.’

Again: the root ‘sume’ (sumpt), from the Latin ‘sumĕre,’ to take, gives us ‘assume,’ ‘consume,’ ‘presume,’ with their participial derivatives, ‘assumption,’ ‘consumption,’ ‘presumption,’ ‘sumptuous,’ ‘presumptuous,’ &c.

The Latin root ‘cede’ (cess) appears in English in two forms of spelling; one, ‘cede,’ as ‘accede,’ ‘concede,’ ‘recede’; and the other, ‘ceed,’ as in ‘exceed,’ ‘proceed,’ ‘succeed.’ These also have their participial derivatives, as found in ‘excess,’ ‘success,’ ‘process,’ ‘accession,’ ‘succession,’ ‘procession.’ It will be seen that in all these cases the rule holds good. Cry is a more household, domestic word, but ‘acclaim,’ ‘declaim,’ ‘proclaim’ are used on more important occasions.

The principle of derivation by the change of an internal vowel-sound prevailed in ancient Latin as well as in Saxon. Thus, from the Latin verb ‘facĕre’ (to make or do) was formed ‘efficere’ (to effect or bring about), the a in the root being changed into an i in the derivative; and we have English words from both these sources:—fact, faculty, facility, &c., from ‘facĕre’; and defect, effect, deficient, efficient, &c., from the other form.

Some of these Latin roots are extremely prolific. For example, the Latin verb ‘tenere,’ to hold, produces a very large number of English words. In certain verbs it appears in the form ‘tain,’ as in to abstain, appertain, attain, contain, detain, maintain, obtain, pertain, retain, and sustain. To these may be added the derivatives, continent, pertinent, and impertinent; besides which, we have from the same source, ‘tenant,’ ‘tenable,’ ‘tenure,’ ‘maintenance,’ and ‘sustenance,’ &c.

Again: the root ‘duce’ (from ‘ducĕre,’ to lead) gives rise to many English derivatives. First we have (through French) the word ‘Duke,’ which originally meant the leader of an army. Then come the verbs to adduce, conduce, deduce, induce, produce, reduce, seduce, traduce, in all which the idea of leading is involved. To the same origin may be traced ductile, aqueduct, viaduct, conduct, and product, besides deduction, reduction, abduction, production, &c.—nineteen or twenty words from one root!

II. A rule has been laid down to enable us to determine whether an English word is derived directly from Latin, or filtered from Latin through French:—‘If the word comes directly from Latin, the only change it will undergo will be in the ending. Thus “actio” in Latin will be “action” in English; “innocentia” will make “innocence;” “tormentum,” “torment,” &c. But if the word comes through French, it will be more altered in its passage; it will be disturbed, not only in its ending, but also internally. Thus “populus” in Latin is “peuple” in French, and “people” in English. The Latin “thesaurus” gives the French “trésor,” and the English “treasure.”’ This may be accepted as a general rule, but it is often impossible to determine by the outward form of a word whether we derive it directly from its primitive Latin source, or take it at second hand from the French. In most cases of doubt the probability is in favour of the French, for there are still many English words which were at first spelled, and probably pronounced, as in French, and whose orthography, and perhaps pronunciation, was afterwards reformed and brought back nearer to the Latin type. ‘Doubt’ and ‘debt’ are still pronounced with the b silent; but when first brought into English they were both written and pronounced as in French—‘doute’ and ‘dette.’ Afterwards, when it became known that they were originally derived from the Latin verbs ‘dubitare’ and ‘debere,’ the b was restored in the spelling, though the French pronunciation was retained; and the same took place with many other Romance words.

There are certain classes of English words from whose outward form we may conclude that they are of Latin (or French) origin. First, when an English noun ends in ‘tion’ preceded by a vowel, we may be pretty sure that it is either directly from Latin, or from Latin through French. Such words as ‘formation,’ ‘completion,’ ‘transition,’ ‘commotion,’ and ‘ablution,’ are derived either directly or indirectly from Latin. We never meet with this ending in words of purely Saxon origin. The termination of these was in Latin ‘tio;’ in French they appear in ‘tion;’ and in English the same ending (tion) is adopted. This Latin ending, ‘tio,’ is, however, sometimes found in French in the form son, which has thus been introduced into certain English words of this class. The Latin ‘ratio’ gave the French ‘raison’ and the English ‘reason.’ Again, ‘traditio’ in Latin became ‘trahison’ in French and ‘treason’ in English. But in many cases the French ending has not passed into English; for the words ‘declinaison,’ ‘conjugaison,’ ‘oraison,’ &c., appear in English as ‘declension,’ ‘conjugation,’ and oration, i.e. in their Latin rather than their French forms.

Another large class of originally Latin words appear in English with the ending ‘ty.’ These are all abstract nouns, which in Latin end in ‘tas.’ This final tas is expressed in French by té, and in English by ty. Thus the Latin ‘societas’ becomes in French ‘société’ and in English ‘society.’ In the same way, from the Latin ‘bonitas’ come the French ‘bonté’ and the English ‘bounty,’ &c.

In many of these cases we find two forms of the same word, each with its own meaning. One of these tends to the French, and the other to the Latin, in spelling; and it may be observed that the French has been more disturbed by contraction, abbreviation, or inversion than the Latin. For example, the two words ‘secure’ and ‘sure’ are both originally from the Latin ‘securus;’ but the former is directly from Latin, whereas the latter is from the French contracted form—‘sûr.’

Another pair of these double forms may be found in ‘hospital’ and ‘hôtel.’ The Latin ‘hospes’ signified either a ‘host’ or a guest, i.e. the entertainer or the entertained. From ‘hospitalis’ came the contracted French form ‘hôtel,’ in the sense of a house where guests or travellers are entertained, as distinguished from ‘hôpital,’ where invalids are taken care of. From the French both these words came into English, each retaining its original meaning.

This principle of a divided meaning is also seen in ‘persecute’ and ‘pursue,’ the latter of which was known in English before we became acquainted with the former. ‘Pursue’ is from the French ‘poursuivre,’ and is used in the general sense of following after eagerly. ‘Persecute,’ from the Latin ‘persecutus,’ the participle of ‘persĕqui,’ is distinguished from ‘pursue’ by the meaning of ‘to follow after with an intent to injure.’

Two other words of this class are ‘superficies’ and ‘surface.’ The former is pure Latin; and is compounded of ‘super,’ ‘upon,’ and ‘facies,’ a face. But this word is only used in a scientific or mathematical sense; whereas ‘surface’ has a more general signification, and means whatever we can see of the outside of any material substance.

We find a similar difference of meaning, as well as form, between ‘potion’ and ‘poison.’ Both these came originally from the Latin ‘potare,’ to drink. The former is the direct Latin, the latter the French form, and both are now English. But the second denotes a species of the first; for ‘poison,’ as is well known, is that species of ‘potion’ which destroys life.

This power of dividing a word into two meanings is not peculiar to English; for many instances of it may be found in German, French, and Italian. But it is of great advantage. It has the effect of providing a large number of terms to express shades of thought by slight differences of meaning, and it thus materially assists in making language a more perfect exponent of human thought.

The following list exhibits some of these double forms:—

III. The third division of this class consists of Low Latin, or, as they are sometimes called, ‘monkish Latin’ words. These have their origin in classical Latin; but they are all corruptions of that language, and were formed at a time when it had fallen into decay. To this division belong such English words as ‘chance,’ ‘esquire,’ ‘ewer’, ‘forest,’ ‘justle,’ ‘manage,’ ‘noise,’ ‘noon,’ ‘pillage,’ ‘rear,’ &c. In all these we may recognise a Latin origin, though the words themselves were unknown to the ancient Romans.

From the Greek verb ‘βάλλειν,’ to cast, probably came the Italian ‘ballo,’ the French ‘bal,’ and the English ‘ball.’ Playing at ball was, in the middle ages, often associated with singing and dancing. Hence the Romance word ‘ballare,’ and the Old Spanish ‘ballar,’ which both meant ‘to sing.’ The French ‘ballade’ and the English ‘ballad’ may be thus accounted for. Apropos of ‘ball,’ it may be here noted that the word ‘bull,’ as in the ‘Pope’s bull,’ is derived from ‘bulla,’ the Latin for ‘ball.’ It was the custom, in the middle ages, after writing any document or letter, to affix to it a seal in the form of a ‘ball,’ so that the Pope’s ‘bull’ really means the Pope’s ‘ball.’

Our word ‘chance’ was in old French ‘chéance,’ from ‘cheoir.’ These are all from the Latin verb ‘cadĕre,’ to fall (out) or happen. The French adjective ‘méchant’ is derived from the old participle ‘més-chéant,’ from ‘més-choir,’ to fall out badly or unluckily. We have not adopted this adjective, but our noun ‘mischance’ may be traced to this source.

A curious case of a modern term derived from compound Latin roots may be found in our word ‘squire.’ This is made up of the Latin ‘scutum,’ a shield, and ‘fero,’ I bear. Hence ‘scutifer,’ a middle-age word, meant a shield-bearer, i.e. one who attended on the knight, and carried his shield. In old French, ‘scutifer’ was softened into ‘escuyer,’ or ‘écuyer;’ and it afterwards appeared in English as ‘esquire,’ or ‘squire.’

The old French for ‘water’ was ‘aigue,’ from the Latin ‘aqua.’ From this was formed the word ‘aiguière,’ a water-vessel; and this is the origin of our English word ‘ewer,’as in ‘cream-ewer.’

Of the same class is the word ‘forest.’ This did not exist in ancient Latin, but sprang up in later ages. The monks made the word ‘foresta’ out of the Latin ‘foras,’ abroad, or out of doors; the same root which produced the English words ‘foreign,’ and ‘foreigner,’ one who comes from abroad. The monkish Latin form was ‘foresta,’ the French ‘forêt,’ and the English ‘forest.’

Under this head may be also placed ‘comfort’ and ‘courage.’ The former of these is well known to be peculiarly English, and there is no word in any of the continental languages which exactly translates it. True, the French are beginning to use the word ‘comfortáble;’ but it may be fairly doubted whether it realises with them the same idea as with us. It has evidently a Latin element; and the second syllable is, no doubt, derived from the Latin ‘fortis,’ strong. So that, what ‘comforts’ would, in the first instance, probably mean, what strengthens, and would especially apply to ‘creature-comforts’—food or drink, which strengthens the body. Afterwards it would be used in a secondary and more extended sense.

The Italian word ‘coraggio’ is derived from ‘core,’ as the French ‘courage’ comes from ‘cœur;’ both these being originally from the Latin ‘cor,’ the heart. From French the word ‘courage’ has passed into English, where the spelling is the same, though it is somewhat differently pronounced. But neither ‘comfort’ nor ‘courage’ is found in classical Latin.

The word ‘contrada’ in Italian and Provençal came into French in the form ‘contrée,’ and into English as ‘country.’ It is derived from the Latin preposition ‘contra,’ against; and means, properly, the part of the land which lies over—against—us. But the word is altogether of modern manufacture. (Compare the German ‘Gegenstand,’ where the meaning is precisely the same.)

The Latin preposition ‘juxta’ has given rise to several words, both French and English, which did not exist in ancient Latin. The French ‘joust,’ a combat in which the antagonists rushed at, or pushed close to, one another, is one of these. Also ‘ajouter,’ to add or put one thing close to another. From these we have, in English, the adverb ‘just,’ as in the phrase ‘just now,’ i.e. close to the present time; and also the verb ‘to adjust,’ i.e. to place things close to each other. ‘To justle,’ or ‘jostle,’ is a frequentative verb, formed from the above adverb ‘just.’

The word ‘danger’ is composed of two Latin roots: ‘damn-um,’ loss, and ‘ger-o,’ I bear; these produced the Low Latin word ‘domigerium.’ This was afterwards corrupted and softened into the French ‘danger,’ and in that form passed into English.

Our word ‘manage’ is from the Latin ‘manus,’ a hand, through the French ‘main.’ There was a Low Latin word, ‘managerium,’ which meant occupation or actual possession, in the sense of holding in the hand. Thence the word was transferred to the furniture requisite for the occupation of a house, and, in the shape of the French ‘ménage,’ to the household of the occupier. The identity of this word with the English ‘manage’ may be seen in the expression ‘bon mesnagier,’ one who understands how to conduct a household—a good manager.

From the Latin ‘manēre,’ to remain, or dwell, are derived the French ‘maison’ and the corresponding English ‘mansion;’ and from the same source come the English words ‘manse,’ the clergyman’s dwelling-house, and ‘manor,’ the lord’s dwelling-house.

From ‘minutus,’ the Latin participle of the verb ‘minuo,’ come the English adjective ‘minúte’ and the noun ‘mínute.’ Properly ‘minuto primo’ was, in Italian, the first division of the hour; ‘minuto secondo’ was the second, and ‘minuto terzo’ the third division; which is, in French, ‘tierce,’ i.e. the sixtieth part of a second. The English word ‘mite’ is only a contraction of minute—it is a minute insect; and a ‘minuet’ is a dance with short steps.

‘Noisome’ and ‘annoy’ are derived from the Latin ‘nocēre,’ to hurt or injure; whence it may be conjectured also comes ‘noise,’ as being something that annoys, as a stir, wrangle, or brawl.

The word ‘peel’ means the rind of fruit or the bark of a stick. This is from the Latin ‘pellis,’ skin, from which comes the French ‘peau.’ The radical sense of this word is, that which is stripped off, or pilled. ‘Pillage’ is a derivative of ‘pill,’ or ‘peel.’ It means a collection of things stripped off, or plundered.

The English word ‘palm’ (of the hand) is from the Greek παλάμη, through the Latin ‘palma.’ A certain tree is called a palm because of its broad spreading leaves, which resemble the palm of the hand; and a palmer was formerly a pilgrim carrying a palm-branch in his hand, in sign of his expedition to the Holy Land.

[CHAPTER III.]
OLD AND NEW WORDS.

One very interesting point in the study of language is the cause of the introduction of new, and the falling off of old, words. It is to be observed that a new word is generally ushered in with a sort of parade—a flourish of trumpets; many writers make a rush at it, and drag it in, whether applicable or not. Its novelty is attractive; and it is often used in a sense which really does not belong to it. But it is not every word thus introduced that maintains its place: it is often found, after all, that it has more sound than sense, and is rather ornamental than useful; and then it is sure to fall into neglect, dies away, and is heard of no more. On the other hand, in the natural course of things, many words which have done good service, and for a long period, are at length discontinued, and give way to new, and sometimes more useful, terms. These slip out of the language unperceived; they are no longer wanted—no one enquires for them; some new and more expressive terms push them out, and they are consigned to oblivion.

It is quite ludicrous to observe how strangely uneducated or illiterate people use words which, to them, are quite new. They are so fascinated with their novelty, or, perhaps, with their sound and length, that they apply them in all manner of odd and eccentric meanings. Two of these words—‘promiscuous’ and ‘immaterial’—seem to be great favourites with a certain class: an ignorant Englishman somehow imagines that the word ‘immaterial’ conveys a sort of reproach, and he insults his fellow-workman by calling him an ‘immaterial,’ meaning that he is a fellow of no worth or respectability. The word ‘promiscuous’ is often used by the lower orders in the same loose way. A witness in a trial, not long ago, stated that ‘he met the prisoner “promiscuously” (or, as he pronounced it, ‘permiskously’) in the streets;’ meaning, by chance, or casually.

If we trace the history of the English language through the various phases of its career, from its earliest up to its present condition, we shall find that it has been continually growing more Romance and less Saxon. It is said that a process of decay had set in even before the introduction of Anglo-Saxon into England—that the language had already lost some of its inflections; and it is well known that, in process of time, these endings, with some few exceptions, wholly disappeared. Again, at a later period, many Saxon nouns which had formed their plurals in en rejected this form, and adopted the Romance (or French) plural-ending, s. At one time, the word ‘eye’ formed its plural ‘eyne,’ or ‘eyen;’ ‘tree’ made ‘treen;’ ‘shoe,’ ‘shoon;’ and even the Romance word ‘uncle,’ ‘unclen.’ These forms have now all departed, and in their place we have ‘eyes,’ ‘trees,’ ‘shoes,’ &c.

The mode of forming a plural by a change of the internal vowel, which was common in Saxon nouns, has now almost vanished from the language. We have some few left; but not more than five or six examples, as ‘tooth,’ ‘goose,’ ‘foot,’ ‘man,’ ‘woman,’ and ‘mouse.’ We may be quite confident that any new nouns brought into English will form their plurals by the French, and not the German, system.

Again, verbs of strong conjugation are much fewer than formerly. Many verbs now form the past tense by adding d or ed to the present which, in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, changed the internal vowel-sound for that purpose. To ‘climb’ formerly made ‘clomb’ (a form used by Milton in the seventeenth century); ‘quake’ made ‘quoke;’ ‘laugh,’ ‘lofe;’ ‘reach,’ ‘raught;’ and many others. All these now adopt the weak form of conjugation, and form the past tense by adding d or ed to the root of the verb: ‘climb-ed,’ ‘laugh-ed,’ ‘reach-ed,’ ‘quak-ed,’ &c. And so it will be with all verbs that may be hereafter brought into the language; they will, one and all, form the past tense by adding ed.

But not only have we lost these Saxon characteristics: whole lists of Saxon words have disappeared which once did good service in the language. This may be easily shown by glancing over a few pages of Chaucer or Mandeville, where we shall find a multitude of terms which have been long disused. For example:—

Even in Shakspere and Milton we may find many words which are now obsolete. All these, again, are Saxon; so that it may be truly said that our losses have been Saxon, whilst our additions have been all Romance, i.e. Latin or French.

In most cases substitutions have been made; but we shall always find that the disused word was Saxon, while the one substituted for it is French or Latin. Thus, for the Saxon compound ‘monath-seoc’ (month sick) we now have ‘lunatic;’ instead of ‘waeter-adl’ (water-illness), we have ‘dropsy.’ The old Anglo-Saxon ‘eorth-gemet’ (earth-measure) has given way to the Greek ‘geometry;’ and the Saxon ‘witena-gemot’ (meeting of wise men), has been transformed into the French ‘parliament.’

In all probability it was the influence of the Norman conquest that assisted this tendency to substitute single terms for compound words. The French language not being favourable to such formations, after a time pushed out many Saxon compounds; and yet, in point of clearness, power, and feeling, the Saxon words were far more effective. Their separate parts were significant, and familiar to the commonest understanding; whereas the new word was, of course, at first altogether foreign, and even after a time was far from being so impressive as the other. For example, the meaning of the Anglo-Saxon noun ‘sige-beacan’ must have been clear to the most uneducated mind: ‘sige’ is ‘victory,’ and ‘beacan’ is ‘sign;’ that is, ‘victory-sign.’ Now, for this was substituted ‘trophy,’ which, being a more uncommon word, does not explain itself as the other, and is, therefore, not so vivid or picturesque. Again, ‘heah-setl’ is translated into ‘throne.’ In the former word we have two distinct ideas, ‘high’ and ‘seat,’ both familiar to the most illiterate peasant; whereas the word ‘throne,’ though now common enough, must at first have puzzled the people considerably.

One very expressive Saxon word, ‘wanhope,’ has disappeared from the language. This may be considered a real loss; ‘wanhope’ expressed that condition of the mind in which we have not actually lost all hope, but when it is beginning to wane, i.e. grow gradually less, and we feel it slipping away from us. ‘Hope’ and ‘despair’ are the two opposite ends of the scale, and ‘wanhope’ formerly expressed an intermediate state of mind. This was a beautiful word, and we have now no equivalent for it.

A host of Saxon derivatives have also vanished from the language which were once in common use; and among them may be named those having the prefix ‘for.’ We still retain the words ‘forbear,’ ‘forbid,’ ‘forget,’ ‘forgive,’ ‘forlorn,’ and ‘forswear;’ but in the writings of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries we often meet with ‘forfend,’ ‘fordrive,’ ‘forsay,’ ‘forspend,’ ‘forwither,’ ‘forwaste,’ &c., all of which are now dead and buried. One word of this class survives, though in a different form, viz. the Saxon verb ‘fordon.’ This verb, though given up, may be still seen in the familiar expression ‘to do for.’

This tendency towards raising the French at the expense of the Saxon portion of English may be accounted for by various circumstances of our history. First, there can be no doubt that the Norman conquest was mainly instrumental in producing this effect. This event could not have failed to be unfavourable to the prosperity of the Saxon. The relation in which the conquerors stood to the conquered was of itself sufficient to account for it, and though the enmity between the two races will explain how the two languages were kept so long separated, when the fusion did at length take place, the advantage was clearly in favour of the governing classes.

Another cause of this leaning to the French may have been the number of French words introduced by Chaucer. The English language (if, indeed, it then deserved that name) was in the latter part of the reign of Edward III. only just beginning to be formed. The Saxon element, which ever since the Conquest had been crushed, was now lifting its head, whilst the French was somewhat discouraged. But the language was not then fit for literary, especially for poetical, purposes; and, therefore, at the very time when it first appeared as English, a large influx of French words took place.

But this result was assisted by other circumstances. The number of Huguenot refugees who found shelter in England after the massacre of St. Bartholomew added materially to the French population of this country, and assisted in swelling the French vocabulary of the English language.

In the seventeenth century the marriage of Charles I. and Henrietta Maria of France could not fail to produce some effect on the language and literature of the age, and though this French taste received a check during the rule of Cromwell, it returned with double force at the Restoration. The foreign tastes acquired by Charles II. in his wanderings on the continent mainly contributed to this state of things, and on the return of the Stewarts, the general tone of the court and nobility, as well as the literature of the age, was French.

But this was as nothing when compared with the consequences of Louis XIV.’s revocation of the Edict of Nantes, in 1685. We are told by Mr. Smiles that, in consequence of this cruel and impolitic act, as many as 400,000 French emigrants found an asylum in this country. It is impossible that this could have been without effect on the English language, and although statistics on the subject are wanting, we may confidently conclude that this immigration considerably increased the French element of the English language.

There can be little doubt that the style of Latinity which Johnson adopted also led to the abandonment of many words of Saxon origin. He was the most weighty authority in England in all things regarding language, style, and literature, till the year of his death, 1784; and his numerous imitators, maintaining his peculiarities of style, still further contributed to the same state of things. Add to all these influences the general leaning of most writers of the present day, and we shall not be surprised at the condition of the English language.

When we consider the numerous and continual attacks which the Saxon element of English has thus sustained, we may be inclined to wonder that there should be any of it left—that it should not have been utterly crushed and annihilated by these raids. But this wonder will be increased when we find that it not only exists, but constitutes to this day by far the larger portion of our language. This is surely sufficient to prove the innate depth, force, and vigour of that element; and we may fairly conclude that if it has so far been able to make head against these innovations, it retains an intrinsic power to resist future attacks of the same nature.

In truth, Saxon is not so much an element as the very basis and foundation of English. The great body of articles, pronouns, numerals, conjunctions, prepositions, signs, auxiliaries, &c.—in fine, all the framework and joints of the language—are drawn from that source.

There are, however, some French philologists who would have it that the majority of words in English is much in favour of French. M. Thommerel gives himself great pains to prove this conclusion, but apparently on very insufficient grounds; and M. Génin, who has written some valuable works on his own language, says, in his ‘Variations du langage Français,’ that the English are indebted to the French for more than three quarters of their language! ‘Les Anglais,’ he writes, ‘ne sont riches que de nos dépouilles; si l’on se mettait à cribler leur langue, et à reprendre ce qui nous appartient, il ne leur resterait pas même de quoi se dire: “Bonjour! comment vous portez-vous?” Leur fameuse formule, How do you do? est volée à la France.’ The tone of this remark is pretty evident, and he surely here allows his patriotism to get the better of his good sense; for he certainly ought to have known that, though our language is enriched with many French words, the main body of English, since the fourteenth century, has been, and is at the present moment, drawn from a Saxon and not a French source. In the case of ‘How do you do?’ however, he is probably right. He quotes from several ballads of the twelfth century the expression ‘Comment le faites-vous?’ as then used in the English sense of ‘How do you do?’ to prove that we have adopted—or rather, as he says, stolen—this form from the French. It has been suggested that the verb do, in this phrase, is derived from the Saxon ‘dugan,’ to prosper or prevail, from which comes the more modern ‘doughty;’ as in ‘a doughty knight.’ According to this explanation, ‘How do you do?’ is equivalent to ‘How do you get on, or prosper?’ But Mr. Wedgewood, in his ‘Dictionary of English Etymology,’ rejects this view. He agrees here with M. Génin, that it is a close translation of the old French ‘Comment le faites-vous?’ And so the matter now stands.

Various circumstances give rise to new words, which either remain in or depart from the language as they may be found serviceable or otherwise. One modern importation is ‘Handbook.’ This appears an unnecessary innovation, more especially as we had already a word which answered the same purpose, and quite as well, viz. ‘Manual,’ and which has the additional recommendation of being a simple, not a compound, word. ‘Handbook’ is of German origin, and probably owes its introduction to that German influence which came in with the late Prince Consort. Mr. Murray has largely contributed to its popularity by his numerous and well-known ‘handbooks,’ and the word will now most probably retain its place in the language.

D’Israeli the elder claims the honour of having introduced the word ‘Fatherland’ into English. This is certainly a useful addition to our vocabulary. We had before no word to distinguish between the two Latin meanings of ‘rus’ and ‘patria;’ ‘country’ being equivocal in sense, since it may mean either the land of our birth, or that part of it distinguished from the town. Here the French have hitherto had the advantage of us: they have ‘patrie,’ for ‘Fatherland;’ ‘pays,’ for a territorial division; and ‘campagne,’ in a rural sense.

The exact date of the introduction of the term ‘stand-point’ is not known, but it is among the new words of about thirty or forty years’ standing; and we may conclude from its form that it is German. This word is, no doubt, an improvement on ‘point of view,’ as being a closer, and therefore more convenient, expression. It is now in common use, especially with writers on mental philosophy.

The noun ‘antecedent’ has been hitherto used exclusively as a term of grammar, but of late years it has appeared in a new sense. It is now often used, in the plural number, to signify the actions and general conduct of some one whose reputation we wish to ascertain. We must inquire, they say, into his ‘antecedents;’ that is, try to find out what he has been doing, who were his companions, how he has hitherto conducted himself, &c. This is certainly a convenient term enough. It expresses concisely what would otherwise require a rather ponderous circumlocution. Mr. ‘Punch,’ with his usual satirical spirit, said that it would be more satisfactory to know something of a suspected man’s relatives than of his antecedents!

We learn from Lord Macaulay that the word ‘gutted’ was first used on the night in which James II. fled from London: ‘The king’s printing-house ... was, to use a coarse metaphor, which then for the first time, came into fashion, completely gutted.’

The first writer who used the word ‘anecdote’ was Procopius, the Greek historian of the reign of Justinian. He wrote a work which he called ‘Anecdotes,’ or a ‘Secret History.’ The Emperor Justinian and his wife, Theodora, are here represented as two demons, who had assumed a human form for the destruction of mankind. Procopius tells us that he wrote this work as a supplement to his ‘History,’ in which he could not, for fear of torture and death, speak of some living persons as they deserved. The word ‘anecdote’ is compounded from the Greek ἀν (an) not, ἐκ (ek) out, and δότα (dota) given. It thus means a fact not given out or put forth—an unpublished story. Though this was its original meaning, every one, of course, knows that we have now whole volumes of published anecdotes.

The ending ‘ation’ is, in English, chiefly applied to Latin roots; as in ‘consultation,’ ‘creation,’ ‘donation,’ &c. It is said that Mr. Dundas, afterwards Lord Melville, was the first to use the word ‘starvation,’ which he introduced in one of his speeches in the House of Commons, on the American war, 1775. Here we had, for the first time, a Saxon root—‘starve’—with a Latin ending—‘ation;’ a hybrid formation. From this circumstance, we are told that Mr. Dundas was ever afterwards called by his acquaintances, ‘Starvation Dundas.’ But whatever objection may have been made to it, the word has now taken a firm hold on the language, and is used by the best writers as a perfectly legitimate term.

The mania of modern times for grand terms has produced some very curious words. Tradesmen, in advertising some new invention or article for sale, almost always endeavour to attract public attention towards it by giving it an unusually grand name, generally from a Greek source, but often a strange combination. To take a few cases of these mysterious compounds:—‘Rypophagon’ Soap. This, it may be presumed, means dirt-eating, or dirt-consuming, soap. But, as all soap cleanses the skin, why should this sort be designated as particularly cleansing? Simply to sell the article. Indeed, we can hardly walk far in the streets of London without seeing some fantastic term of this sort paraded in the shop windows. The hair-dresser exhibits his ‘Auricomous’ Fluid; and the son of Crispin his ‘Antigropelos’ Boots. These meet us at every turn. One tradesman has lately advertised a machine which he thinks proper to call a ‘Dotosthene;’ by which, we may conjecture, he means, an instrument for strengthening the back.

Some years ago the writer, walking up Oxford Street, became aware of a fellow carrying on his back before him a huge placard, on which was inscribed the strange word ‘Therapolegeia.’ This was a decided poser. On rubbing up his Greek, however, he at length discovered that this curious word might possibly mean, ‘an office for the registry of servants;’ and so it turned out. But which of the two parties—the ladies who wished to hire the servants, or the servants who wanted to be hired—best understood the word ‘Therapolegeia’ is a problem still to be solved.

Tailors—I beg their pardon, Merchant Clothiers!—now persist in calling coats and waistcoats ‘tunics’ and ‘vests;’ and as for ‘trousers,’ the word is considered far too gross for ears polite! And what has become of ladies’ bonnets? They are gone—departed—vanished! but they have left their ghosts behind them, in the shape of a wretched little bunch of silk and ribbons, dignified by the name of ‘Head-dress!’

Some of these outlandish compounds are not very intelligible. One of them—‘Orthopœdic’—is a term applied to an institution lately established in Oxford Street, for operating on club-feet. The name is probably intended to raise the establishment in public estimation, but the form of the word has justly called forth the censure of some critics. If this word, as seems probable, is meant to convey the idea of ‘straight-footed,’ the third syllable should be formed from the Greek ποῦς, ποδός, a foot, and the whole word should stand ‘orthopodic,’ and not ‘orthopœdic.’

‘Stereotype,’ a term now commonly known to printers, and, indeed, to general readers, was invented and first used by Didot, the well-known French printer. This word will certainly maintain its place in English.

The adjective ‘inimical’ is said to owe its origin to Mr. Windham, who first introduced it in one of his speeches in the House of Commons about eighty years ago. It is useful to mark a distinction between private and public enmity; ‘inimical’ having the first, and ‘hostile’ the second, meaning. But the word is not very popular, in spite of its four syllables, and does not appear to make its way.

The great French Revolution of 1789, as might have been expected, brought forth many new words, some of which have been adopted in English. One, destined to become a very prominent feature of the times, was ‘Guillotine.’ This well-known instrument was named after its inventor, Dr. Guillotin. How or why they made it feminine, by adding to it an e, is not clear; but the word now stands ‘La Guillotine,’ and has secured for itself a permanent place in the French language.

Other words which were the offspring of those dreadful times have disappeared from common use and parlance, and are only occasionally referred to as memorials of the age which produced them. Such are the new names then given to the months; as ‘Brumaire,’ ‘Vendémiaire,’ ‘Fructidor,’ ‘Thermidor,’ &c. When the fury of the revolutionary spirit was at length exhausted, and things were brought back to their former condition, these words naturally fell into disuse, and at last disappeared. There were, however, others belonging to this period which seem to have taken a stronger hold on the people’s mind, and which form to this day part of the legitimate vocabulary of the French language. In this class may be named ‘fusillade’ and ‘noyade:’ those horrible wholesale shootings and drownings of the Vendéans which formed such a frightful picture of that awful period. ‘Terroriste’ first appeared under Robespierre’s administration; and the assassins of the unfortunate prisoners in September 1792 were termed ‘Septembriseurs.’

It is natural to suppose that political names would be born with the parties which they designate. The terms ‘Whig’ and ‘Tory’ were never heard of till the close of the seventeenth century; and it is curious that there is much obscurity concerning the etymology of both these words. All that is positively known on the subject is, that the first is of Scotch, and the second of Irish, origin. ‘Whig’ was first applied to the Scotch covenanters, and ‘Tory’ to the Popish outlaws who favoured the cause of King James II. in Ireland. It may be remarked, by the way, that these two words, though not wholly extinct, are now much less frequently heard than formerly. Different circumstances of political warfare have introduced new terms in both these cases. ‘Tories’ became ‘Protectionists’ during the great debates on the Corn-Laws; and now they call themselves ‘Conservatives.’ The Whigs, again, appeared on one occasion as ‘Reformers,’ and they are at present known as ‘Liberals.’

The name ‘Puritan,’ as applied to a religious sect, still flourishes in English. It was first heard of in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and then given as a nickname to a party which would have even reformed the Reformation. These ‘Puritans’ affected a superhuman purity of morals, and hence their name. They were also sometimes called ‘Precisians,’ from their excessive fastidiousness about insignificant matters (this latter word has now fallen out of use).

The distinction between ‘Roundhead’ and ‘Cavalier’ first appeared during the civil war between Charles I. and his Parliament. The ‘Roundhead,’ in his sour and sullen spirit, condemned all outward ornament, and wore his hair cropped close; thus showing the round form of his head; in contradistinction to the chivalrous tone, the romantic spirit, and the flowing locks of the Cavalier.

The opprobrious term ‘Gueux’ (Beggars) was adopted in 1566 by the Dutch revolters against the rule of Philip II. Margaret of Parma, then governor of the Netherlands, being somewhat disconcerted at the numbers of that party, was reassured by her minister, Barlaimont, who remarked to her, that there was nothing to be feared from a crowd of ‘beggars.’ The party of confederates accepted this name, and prided themselves on it; and in every language in which the history of the revolt of the Netherlands has been written, this French term, ‘gueux,’ is used to designate these malcontents.

Many popular authors, presuming on their own authority, have endeavoured to introduce new and strange terms into the English language. Coleridge, in his work ‘On Church and State,’ makes use of the following extraordinary words:—‘Influencive,’ ‘extroitive, ‘retroitive,’ and ‘productivity.’ Bentley uses:—‘Commentitious,’ ‘aliene,’ ‘negoce,’ and ‘exscribe.’ But no other writers adopted these words: a clear proof that they were not wanted.

Charles Lamb used, in his writings, several words which have not succeeded in maintaining a place in the language. Among them may be named, ‘agnise,’ ‘burgeon,’ and ‘arride.’

Again, any subject of temporary excitement will generally give birth to some new words. The Indian Mutiny gave us ‘to loot;’ and during the American civil war, we made our first acquaintance with ‘secesh,’ ‘skedaddle,’ and ‘stampede.’ Words born under such circumstances may be long- or short-lived: some maintain a place in the language, others have but a brief existence; they ‘fret their hour upon the stage,’ and then are heard no more.

We have also many examples of words which originated in some question of passing interest, and which, though the causes of their first appearance have long since passed away, still remain in our language, and do us excellent service there. The general belief in astrology in the Middle Ages left us several words of this class. Though we no longer believe that the position of the stars can affect our fortunes, we still use the word ‘disaster,’ in the sense of a calamity or misfortune. From the same source come the adjectives, ‘jovial,’ ‘mercurial,’ ‘martial,’ and ‘saturnine.’ These express qualities supposed to belong to those heathen gods whose names were given to the constellation under which any one was born. In astrological phraseology a man’s fortune is still said to be in the ascendant, or to culminate. Both these expressions were first used by the astrologers, and referred to certain stars which, when they had risen to their greatest height, were believed to portend prosperity. The word ‘aspect,’ though now expressing the general appearance of things, was first applied, astrologically, to the physical appearance or outward view of the heavens; and ‘lunatic’ was first used in the sense of one supposed to be mentally affected by a change of the moon.

Other superstitions have produced words of a like nature. The ancient Roman divination may be still traced in our English words ‘augur,’ ‘auspice,’ ‘omen,’ &c. The left hand was always regarded by the ancients as portending ill-luck; and hence our modern word ‘sinister,’ which at first meant simply ‘left-handed,’ has now come to signify ‘foreboding evil.’

‘Its,’ the possessive form of the neuter personal pronoun, is of comparatively late introduction into our language. In Anglo-Saxon, the same form served for both the masculine and neuter possessive; thus:—

At first, the nominative neuter, ‘it,’ was used for the possessive neuter, of which many instances occur in Shakspere. See ‘King John,’ act. ii. sc. 1: ‘Go to it grandame, child.’ The same may be found in the authorised version of the Scriptures (of 1611); see Leviticus xxv. 5: ‘That which groweth of “it” own accord.’ But in this translation the word ‘its’ is not once found. Genesis i. 11: ‘The tree yielding fruit after his kind.’ Mark. ix. 50: ‘If the salt have lost his saltness,’ &c. Milton avoids the use of ‘its.’ It seldom occurs in his prose works, and there are not more than three or four instances of it in his poems. The precise date and occasion of the first introduction of ‘its’ into the English language have not been ascertained, but it was probably early in the seventeenth century. It is said that the ‘Rowley’s Poems’ of Chatterton was detected to be a forgery by the presence of the word ‘its’ several times in the MS. Rowley was represented as a monk of the fifteenth century, when the word was certainly not in the language.

New French Words.

M. Génin, in his chapter on the age of certain French words and phrases, mentions the following cases:[1]—

1. ‘Désagrément’ and ‘renaissance;’ mentioned by Père Bouhours as new words in 1675, two years after the death of Molière.

2. ‘Insidieux’ and ‘sécurité;’ established in the language by Malherbe.

3. ‘Sagacité;’ first found in the works of St.-Réal and Balzac.

4. The sixteenth century was remarkable for an irruption of diminutives, introduced chiefly by the influence of Ronsard and his school. Most of these are now lost; but two of them, viz. ‘historiette’ and ‘amourette,’ are retained.

5. It was Ménage who first used the word ‘prosateur.’

6. The negative words ‘intolérance,’ ‘inexpérimenter,’ ‘indévot,’ ‘irréligieux,’ and ‘impardonnable’ were subjects of much discussion about the end of the seventeenth century, and did not take root in the language till the eighteenth.

7. The Abbé St.-Pierre first used the word ‘bienfaisance.’

8. St.-Évremond discusses the word ‘vaste,’ remarking that it was then new, and not firmly established.

9. Ronsard first used ‘avidité,’ and ‘ode;’ and Baïf introduced ‘épigramme,’ ‘aigredoux,’ and ‘élégie.’

10. In the seventeenth century, the literati of the Hôtel Rambouillet produced several new words: Ségrais gave to the French language ‘impardonnable;’ Desmarets, ‘plumeux;’ and Balzac, ‘féliciter.’

The members of the Port-Royal also furnished their contingent of new words, which the Jesuits of course condemned as ridiculous and detestable. Among these new terms were ‘hydrie’ and ‘amphore.’ The first appears in a translation of Ecclesiastes xii. 6: ‘Antequam conteratur hydria ad fontem’—‘Before the pitcher be broken at the well.’ The second, ‘amphore,’ was used in a translation of Horace’s ode, ‘Ad Amphoram.’ But ‘hydrie’ was not destined to live, and has become obsolete; ‘amphore’ is still retained.

[CHAPTER IV.]
DEGENERACY OF WORDS.

One point to be observed in the nature and history of words is their tendency to contract in form and degenerate in meaning. A word which, in the beginning of its career, has generally a favourable, or at any rate a not disparaging, meaning, becomes, as it grows older, weaker in effect and more contracted in form and signification, and, in most cases, falls into an unfavourable sense. It does not improve or extend, but contracts and deteriorates in meaning. Archbishop Trench uses this fact as an argument to prove the perversity and evil tendencies of mankind; and it must be admitted to have considerable force. Take the two verbs, to ‘resent’ and to ‘retaliate.’ The first of these means, etymologically, ‘to feel back,’ or ‘feel in return.’ Of course, one may feel kindly or unkindly, according to circumstances: but we now never use this word in a favourable sense. We are never said to ‘resent’ kindness or affection; but only injury, slander, ill deeds, &c. Again, the derivation of ‘retaliate’ is from the Latin ‘re’ (back) and ‘talis’ (such); and it would naturally signify, ‘to give back such’ (as we have received). But we now retaliate offences or indignities, and never favours or benefits. These words were, however, once used in a much more extended sense. Dr. South, a celebrated preacher of Charles II.’s time, in one of his sermons has the expression, ‘resenting God’s favours,’ which, according to the present restricted meaning of the word, would seem to a modern reader positively blasphemous. But in the seventeenth century the word ‘resent’ implied good as well as bad feeling; gratitude for benefits received as well as anger for injury done.

This tendency to degenerate will appear, perhaps, more evidently if we inquire into the original source of certain English words which are now used as the strongest terms of reproach in the language. Among these may be named, ‘thief,’ ‘villain,’ and ‘vagabond.’

The first is of Saxon origin. ‘Theow’ was a term originally applied to one of the servile classes of the Anglo-Saxon population, and in its first sense implied no reproach. But, as people in this position had many temptations to fraud and deceit, the word at length came to have its modern signification; i.e. it degenerated into the present meaning of ‘thief.’

‘Villanus’ was, in Latin, first used in the sense of a farm-servant; but as those in this capacity acquired a bad reputation by their immorality and brutal violence, the whole class was stigmatised; and thus the word ‘villain’ now conveys, as every one knows, a very different sense from that of farm-servant.

There is no particular reproach conveyed in the etymology of ‘vagabond.’ It meant at first simply a wanderer. But as the habits of a wanderer are likely to become unsteady, irregular, and reckless, this term, in course of time, degenerated into its present acceptation. It is now always associated with the ideas of a loose morality and want of sobriety.

‘Prejudice’ is another of those words which have gradually got rid of their favourable meaning, and are, in most cases, used in a bad sense. It is true, we sometimes say ‘prejudiced in favour of’ some person or thing; but, without this specification, there is always a leaning towards the bad sense of the word. And yet the derivation shows simply, ‘a judgment formed before sufficient reflection,’ whether favourable or otherwise.

In the same class may be placed ‘animosity.’ In Latin, ‘animosus’ meant courageous, full of soul, vigour, and ardour. Now, it is wholly confined to the sense of a violent feeling of anger, hatred, and resentment. In fine, it has lost all its beauty. There is no longer the least trace of anything noble in the word ‘animosity.’

The words ‘simple’ and ‘simplicity’ still retain something of their original charm, but it is much to be feared that they are more frequently used in a contemptuous sense. We speak of a ‘simple’ fellow, as of one who is easily cheated or duped; one wanting in shrewdness; anything but ‘knowing;’ which, by the way, is another term which has degenerated into an unfavourable acceptation.

It may seem strange, but it is certainly true, that the word ‘good’ which is naturally associated with everything high, pure, and noble, both in morals and intellect, has partaken of this general tendency downwards, and is often used in the sense of ‘able to pay,’ or ‘having sufficient means to discharge’ debts. This use of the word is found in the language as far back as Shakspere’s time. In the ‘Merchant of Venice,’ Shylock says to Bassanio:—‘Antonio is a good man?’ and when Bassanio asks him ‘if he has heard any imputation to the contrary,’ he replies:—‘My meaning in saying he is a good man, is to have you understand me that he is sufficient.’ This is still the common acceptation of the word with city men; with them, a good man is one who has a large balance at his banker’s.

If we look into the original meaning of the word ‘cunning,’ we shall find that it was not at first used in its present bad sense. This is one of a numerous Saxon family, based upon the type ‘kn’ or ‘cn;’ as ‘ken,’ ‘know,’ ‘can,’ ‘king,’ ‘cunning,’ &c. We find in Psalms cxxxvii. 5:—‘If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her “cunning,”’ where the word is used for skill or art. This meaning is now seldom applied, while the word has kept its sense of deceit or slyness.

The same may be said of ‘craft.’ It had at first a good as well as a bad sense. It meant ability or dexterity, as well as fraud or artifice. Now its bad meaning is in the ascendant. If the favourable sense is sometimes intended, this is the exception, not the rule.

Indeed, there are many English words which, though not taken in a positively unfavourable sense, have yet a tendency that way—which require qualifying, if we wish them to be understood favourably. For instance, if we speak of any one’s ‘curiosity,’ meaning that he has an inquiring spirit, it will be necessary to explain that we mean a well-directed, and not a prying, impertinent curiosity; for, without that explanation, it will be certainly understood in the latter sense. In fine, when there are two meanings to a word, a right and a wrong, the evil is sure to prevail.

The words ‘critic’ and ‘criticise’ are in precisely the same condition. These words do not of necessity imply fault-finding. A critic is simply a judge; he may have to praise as well as to blame; but every one knows full well that to ‘criticise’ is generally looked upon as synonymous with ‘to censure,’ and, unless qualified, is sure to be understood in the latter sense.

In the very copious vocabulary of words which have ‘fallen from their high estate,’ or undergone a pernicious transformation, may be also ranged the word ‘fellow.’ In some cases it retains a certain respectability, as when we speak of the ‘Fellow of a college.’ Shakspere makes Hamlet say of Yorick, the jester:—‘He was a “fellow” of infinite jest,’ where the sense is certainly not intended to be disparaging. But now-a-days ‘fellow’ is, on the whole, not looked upon very favourably. It is suggestive of recklessness and disorderly conduct, and, unless qualified, is not a very complimentary term.

As to the word ‘knave,’ it is irrecoverably lost. It is the lowest and most degrading term we can apply as a reproach and an insult; and yet it meant originally nothing more than ‘boy,’ as ‘Knabe’ does to this day in German. By what process the ‘boy’ became a ‘knave’ may be a speculation, but the word has obviously lost its former good name.

This perversity of human nature in turning words into an opposite and unfavourable meaning may also be seen in many familiar and every-day forms of speech. It is not uncommon to hear an abandoned fellow spoken of as a ‘precious’ scoundrel, or some absurdity referred to as ‘blessed’ nonsense. This perversion is not confined to English. The French often use the word ‘sacré’ in a sense diametrically opposed, to ‘holy,’ a meaning which existed in Latin, from which French is derived. Virgil’s ‘auri “sacra” fames’ is properly translated ‘accursed lust for gold.’ The Latin ‘altus’ also conveyed the distinct and opposite meanings of ‘high’ and ‘deep.’

Also the English word ‘silly’ has degenerated from ‘selig,’ which in German preserves its meaning of ‘blessed;’ and ‘ninny’ took its origin from the Spanish ‘niño,’ where it means simply ‘a child.’

Another example of a change for the worse may be seen in the word ‘prevent.’ The Church Service gives us this word in the literal sense of ‘to go before, or guide:’ ‘Prevent us, O Lord, in all our doings,’ &c.; and in the Collect for the 17th Sunday after Trinity:—‘We pray Thee that Thy grace may always “prevent” and follow us.’ But this is not the present sense of the word; it has now always the meaning of ‘to stop,’ rather than to guide onwards—the very opposite of its former signification. This, like other words, has degenerated.

Contradictory Meanings.

Connected with this degeneracy of words is one very curious phenomenon, viz. that in English we frequently meet with the same word in two distinct meanings, directly opposed to each other. For example, the verb ‘to let’ has generally the meaning of ‘to give leave,’ or ‘allow.’ This is its ordinary acceptation, but in the still common legal phrase, ‘without let or hindrance,’ it has the very opposite meaning.[2] Again, Hamlet says:—‘I’ll make a ghost of him that “lets” me,’ i.e. him that interferes with or hinders me, where the sense is again the very reverse of the usual meaning.

The verb ‘to cleave’ is another case of this contradiction of meaning. ‘To cleave’ may mean either ‘to adhere to closely’ or ‘to cut asunder.’[3] When we say the tongue ‘cleaves’ to the roof of the mouth, it is used in the first sense; but the directly opposite meaning is implied when people talk of ‘cleaving’ wood, i.e. cutting it into parts.

We may use the word ‘fast’ in two senses, opposed to each other. It conveys the idea either of quiet rest or of rapid motion. ‘The door was fast locked,’ means that it was fixed and not to be moved; whereas in the sentence, ‘He runs fast,’ it expresses quickness of motion.

To this class also belongs ‘nervous,’ which means either possessing, or wanting nerve. When ladies are said to be ‘nervous,’ we understand that they are weak, timid, easily frightened; in fine, wanting nerve. On the other hand, a ‘nervous’ style is one marked by vigour and energy. One use of the word represents the absence, and the other the presence, of nerve.

When Shakspere makes Hamlet say, ‘Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven,’ he means, ‘my most hated foe.’ As extremes are said to meet, so does this word express the extremes of love and hatred.

The adjective ‘fearful’ will also illustrate this principle. It means either ‘affected by fear’ or ‘inspiring fear.’ The word ‘mortal’ is in the same condition. Its usual sense is ‘subject to death,’ but it is also used subjectively, as ‘producing death.’ Hence the difference between a ‘mortal wound’ and a ‘mortal being.’